


assume a shape that you find amusing

by LullabyKnell



Series: LullabyKnell and the Harry Potter Fics [17]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boggarts, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, Light Horror, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, POV George Weasley, POV Third Person Limited, Post-Canon, Post-Deathly Hallows, Post-War, Pre-Epilogue, Recovery, References to Depression, Trauma, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 02:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9528002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LullabyKnell/pseuds/LullabyKnell
Summary: Post-DH AU:After the war, people rebuild, people recover, and life goes on in all its ups and downs. George Weasley really could have done without the down of some nutter releasing hundreds of boggarts across the country, because he'd rather not rediscover his mortal fears, but he'll deal with it and do his best to help people laugh in the face of fear. Maybe it's time to prove that, despite everything, he's still got it.





	1. Dear Listeners

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is... fairly clearly a product of the time. Someone asked me about my thoughts on boggarts before and after the war, and I started thinking about various characters, started writing a short thing from George's POV and... it became a lot longer and a lot more in-depth than I meant it to be. Before I knew it, I had an actual fic for this prompt. Luckily, it really shouldn't be too long. I expect about seven chapters in total at most. There's a very clear arc here. 
> 
> The characters whose boggarts I expect to cover through this fic are George, Andromeda, Harry, Hermione, and Percy. There'll probably be mentions of others, but those are the others I'm specifically going for. And fyi, this fic takes places in an Alternate Post-DH Universe, about five years or so after DH, where I have essentially ignored any canon content after the last chapter of DH (before the Epilogue) and gone another direction entirely. 
> 
> "The charm that repels a boggart is simple, yet it requires force of mind. You see, the thing that really finishes a boggart is laughter. What you need to do is force it to **assume a shape that you find amusing**.”  
>  \- J.K. Rowling, _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_

George doesn’t pay as exceedingly close attention to the news as he probably should, but that’s what he has Lee for. He can’t bring himself to read and analyze newspapers or listen to radio all too seriously anymore, having no trust and even less respect for the publications that he refuses to forget had the moral backbone of jelly during the war. They can move on, but he can’t. 

Every time they disgustedly denounce someone as a Voldemort supporter or a Death Eater, George can’t help but stare disbelievingly at the paper or towards the radio. He can’t help but recall the dozens of articles or rants that called Harry an insane glory-hound before the war, then fell over themselves to call him the Chosen One. He can’t help but recall all these “dignified” journalists’ complete submission during the war, when the Ministry and Hogwarts were occupied, that immediately denounced Harry Potter as a trouble-maker, a terrorist, and Undesirable Number One. 

Wars don’t spring up from nowhere. War is the result of a bubbling cauldron finally boiling over. Before the war, George thought he’d had a good understanding of human ugliness and hatred, but now... He can’t read a goddamn newspaper without feeling at least a little sick to his stomach. 

 _You wrote an article praising the Ministry for replacing Scrimgeour with Thicknesse,_ George will always think,  _because he was apparently both too ruthless and too soft for your liking. And you’re still writing political opinion pieces, like you didn’t defend the Muggleborn Registration Act as a commendable control action in “chaos” and something to wait and see the results of. Now you’re just pretending to be on our side, shielded by your “neutrality” despite how others killed innocents in front of you, because yours lost._  

George has no more faith in the Ministry or the Daily Prophet or any of those things. He has faith in people... like Kingsley... like Harry... like McGonagall, who all work so hard to undo everything. He has faith in  _Percy,_ so long as his brother gets a good knock to the head every now and again to remember that authority and tradition don’t have inherent rightness. He doesn’t have any faith in the system, in society, in the structure that holds the cauldron steady and keeps the fire lit. He was never much of a rule-follower, but sometimes he can’t believe how much he trusted before that all those rules they’d bent were, deep-down, built on rightness. 

He’s so very grateful to have Lee to keep him from drowning sometimes.

“Georgie! Oh, babe, you’ll never believe this one,” Lee says, bursting into the shop office with a box in his arms full of folders and records and a small radio. 

 Lee’s clearly come straight from work, a Wizarding Wireless Radio station called The Knight Watch, on Vock just off of Diagon. He’s still wearing his work headphones around his neck, his thick, locked hair tied back into a loose bun, and his t-shirt and sweatshirt both advertise the relatively new and up-and-coming station. 

One of the original founders of the first truly popular W.W.R. station in Britain, Mr. Davis, is a Muggleborn, so he had to go into hiding during the war when his old station was partly destroyed and partly seized. Lee was working there at the time and hasn’t described it beyond the entire station’s front lighting up with green fire, everybody Apparating away as figures in black cloaks burst in, and Mr. Davis thrusting a box of equipment on him before telling him to run.

With the notes and equipment in the box, and Lee apparently suddenly out of a job, they were able to set up Potterwatch and have the whole thing actually  _work._

When the war was over and Mr. Davis could come back, along with the other Muggleborns and “blood-traitors” he’d been helping and hiding with, he decided not to have anything to do with his old station. Not after the remains of it had been used to broadcast Death Eater and Ministry propaganda until the war ended. Davis set up an entirely new station and Lee was the first person the old man asked to work for him, all while sincerely praising his work during the war and thanking him sincerely on behalf of everyone he’d helped save with his broadcasts. 

Mr. Davis and Lee are of stronger stomachs than George is these days. Mr. Davis is perfectly happy to pay Lee a lot to call out and argue with every “neutral” purist and Death Eater apologist out there, and to report the actual facts of what went on during the war and what’s happening in the world now. Lee’s sarcastic, comic, and realistic takes on the ugliness and brightness of everyday life is just about the only source of news that George can enjoy or even really tolerate these days. 

Besides the Quibbler, of course, and Teen Witch Weekly.

Lee dumps the box of stuff he’s carrying on the nearest clean surface, which happens to be the desk space right next to George, and flings himself into George’s lap. George has to abandon the supply orders in favor of catching his boyfriend, arms coming up to keep Lee from tumbling backwards onto the floor as Lee’s arms come around his shoulders. 

“Hey,” Lee says, before he brings George’s head down for a smooch. 

Like pretty much every other time this happens, which is at least once every day, one kiss turns into two... which turns into three... which turns into a bit of light snogging in greeting. It’s hard to help it. Lee is always warm and soft and his kisses make the whole world go away for a while. 

George pulls back soon enough and Lee settles comfortably in his lap, sprawled across the chair with legs over the armrest and head against George’s shoulder. The headphones dig into George’s collarbone a little bit, but he doesn’t really mind. 

“Hey,” George says.  

“Didn’t interrupt anything, did I?” Lee wonders, a stray hand wandering into the collar of George’s robes. 

“Nah, nothing important. Just shop orders and rent notices that don’t need to go out until tomorrow. Is it busy down there? How’s Ron doing?” 

“Just fine,” Lee assures him. “No blue goop today.” 

George sighs in relief, both at having Lee with him again and no more incidents with the blue goop. He’s  _never_ ordering that product again, at least until they come up with a better sealed package. It hadn’t come out or off of anything for weeks. It had been hilarious, of course, but George didn’t need his manager going around blue-skinned, if only because the shade had clashed rather horribly (hilariously) with Ron’s hair. 

“Good,” George says, before an overwhelming sweetness swells in his chest and he has to add, “Besides, you interrupt me just by walking into a room, you know that.” 

“Aw, babe.”

“Did you use  _Stupefy_ on me? Because you’re  _Stunning.”_

Lee laughs and leans up to smooch his jaw. “Oh, babe, that’s  _terrible._ Where’d you hear that one?” 

“Came up with it, of course.” 

“My boyfriend’s a genius and I’m using that in a show at some point.” 

“I feel exploited,” George complains, feeling good-humored. “So what were you saying as you came in? You were saying something?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah! Babe, you’re gonna hate this, it’s horrible. So, Mr. Davis came in after lunch with one of his Ministry friends, this one from the Reg. and Control of Magical Creatures Department, where there was this  _enormous_ illegal breeding bust late last week.” 

“Yeah?” 

“This old bloke had been breeding  _boggarts_ in his basement for, like, twenty years. Complete nutter thinks they’re an endangered species or something that needs to be protected, so he’d cast all sorts of Expansion Charms and weird empathetic magic all over his house to turn it into this spooky as fuck breeding ground for  _hundreds_ of boggarts. Hundreds of the things!” 

George’s eyebrows raise almost of their own accord. “Hundreds?” 

“Hundreds,” Lee confirms. “And nobody had any idea because he’d been keeping them pretty well-contained in his haunted mansion, except one of them got the drop on him and he fell down his stairs, so he had to go to Saint Mungo’s for a busted hip.” 

“Ouch.” 

“So  _then,_ his daughter gets this idea in her head that now is the time to forcefully clean his house, since he’s in the hospital and can’t stop her from entering this Insane Boggart Posse Party-House he’s been keeping people out of for decades. Which, to be fair, is pretty understandable. If my Nan couldn’t keep her house tidy and tripped, I’d probably do something. So the daughter hires a cleaning company to tackle this giant disaster.” 

“Oh no.” 

“Oh  _yes_.” 

“This is going somewhere very bad, I can tell.” 

“You told  _right,_ because it’s obviously a disaster from the get-go and then it gets  _worse._ The cleaning company can do boggarts and stuff, right, so they go in and get scared and come right back out, totally under the impression there’s not more than five in the whole house. You know-” 

“A perfectly reasonable unreasonable amount of nightmare personifications to have in your home,” George supplies. 

“Exactly! So they go  _back_ in after the first disastrous time and somehow - I have no fucking clue how - end up releasing  _every single_ boggart in the whole haunted fucking house.” 

“Oh my-” 

“I know, right? So now there’s  _hundreds_ of boggarts on the loose across Britain - it’s an invasion, basically - and the Ministry’s trying to keep it  _hush hush_ and all that bullshit to prevent panic or whatever. We did no such thing, because fuck, you gotta warn people about that sort of shit so they can prepare themselves to see one sooner or later.” 

“There’s already been a bunch of incidents, I take it?” 

“ _Tons._ The D.M.L.E.’s been overworked since it happened and it’s just an enormous mess for everybody,” Lee says. “I was thinking you and I could probably whip up some sort of guide and care package for people, to help them out. Mr. Davis would advertise it for free.” 

George is already thinking of how to put such a thing together and how much it might cost. He definitely wants to help. There’s probably an astounding amount of highly capable witches and wizards out there with no idea how to handle a boggart, and many more non-wanded wizards and hedgewitches and anyone with a magical-disability, not to mention poor Muggleborns and their magically-aware parents who’ll need help. 

“Yeah, I can probably put something together,” George says. “Dunno how fast, though. Pamphlets and shock blankets and chocolate, easy. Something for someone who can’t cast? Hmm, that’s... I have a few ideas... but...” 

“You always do,” Lee says, smiling up at him, pressing another kiss against George’s jaw. “Don’t stress yourself over it, though. I was thinking of calling in your bro’s friends to lend us a hand.” 

“Harry and Hermone?” George says, feeling a bit more inspired. He can do a lot on his own, even more with Ron and Lee helping out, but Harry and Hermione would be  _really_ helpful for this sort of thing. 

“Uh huh. Harry’s taking his D.A.D.A. mastery soon, right? And Hermione can churn out pamphlets in her sleep at this point, probably. Besides, people listen to Harry for some reason beyond us all, so using the Man-Who-Won as a spokesperson will really get the word out there.” 

“Harry’s not really the spokesperson type,” George says, a little amused at the mental picture of Diagon advertisements with Harry.

Giant posters of Harry awkwardly and unhappily peddling the latest beauty potion. Enormous fashion posters of the latest clothes at odds with Harry’s wild hair, shortness, and usual slouch. Or posters of Harry unconvincingly selling the latest strange flavor of the new Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Butterbeer promotion, the existence of which he clearly doesn’t understand. 

It’s not really the same situation, but it’s really funny. 

Lee snorts, probably enjoying his own mental pictures of similar things. “Yeah, but I already told Mr. Davis that he’d do it, because my genius boyfriend who is an excellent salesman is  _personal friend_ of his investor, the Boy-Who-Lived. So, you know, I have connections like that.” 

“I feel exploited again,” George complains, playfully, leaning into Lee’s hands sneaking under his collar and the bottom of his shirt. 

“You love it,” Lee insists. 

They kiss again and one smooch quickly turns into two... which turns into three... which turns into some light snogging again. George’s legs are going a little numb from Lee’s weight and Lee’s headphones are still digging into his neck, but it’s a price he’s willing to pay. 

“...You should really just ask Harry up front,” George says, when they break apart. “He’ll probably agree without a fight so long as you phrase it more like an extension of the D.A. or something.” 

“Yeah, probably.” 

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment. Well... comfortable quiet. In George’s office, they can still hear the mostly muted thump and bustle of people in the shop, the stomp and scream of kids running about, and then all the regular sounds of Diagon Alley outside. 

“... _Hundreds_ of boggarts,” George repeats, finally. 

“Yep.” 

“That’s...” 

“ _Riddikulus?”_ Lee supplies. 

George looks down at him with a grin. “You know me so well.” 

“I’ve made that pun at least twenty times today and counting, babe. You’re gonna need some fresh material if you wanna keep up.” 

~

 George hasn’t seen a boggart for a while, not since the war. He hasn’t thought of them much since then, since… well… it’s not healthy for him to dwell on things like mortality and mortal fears apparently, so he makes an effort to avoid miserable thoughts for his own sake. The rut of depression is an awful place and he doesn’t want to fall back into that sort of thing.

 Still, listening to Lee talk about all the ongoing chaos of a mass boggart infestation, George is left pretty fixed on the subject and he… wonders. He turns corners in their small apartment wondering if there’s a boggart around the bend and what he’ll do if there is. He flicks lights on wondering if he’ll see his worst nightmare in front of him and how he’ll cope with that. He makes supper, they eat, and George and Lee sit on the sofa in the living room together. George with his sketchbook while Lee makes adjustments to a script, humming some old Warbeck tune, and George wonders if, despite his whole world being overturned and resettled, his worst fear will have remained steady.

  _Probably not,_ he thinks, jotting down a few more notes next to a drawing that’s half schematic and half newspaper comic doodle. He tamps down on his curiosity and the temptation of finding out, focusing instead of covering another few pages in notes and names and anything else that gets rained out of his brainstorm.

  _Definitely probably not,_ he thinks, as he makes note of known books and journals and spell theory he’ll need to get his hands on to make these “Boggart-Be-Gone” kits (name pending) something worthy of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. He might be planning to capitalize on people’s panic, here, but he’ll be damned if he’s not going to give them a product that’ll actually help them.

 Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes is still a prank and mischief-oriented joke shop, but the war definitely moved business a bit beyond that. George’s memory of the first few months after the war is skewed by shock and mourning, but… he remembers the ridiculous number of people who came up to him afterwards and thanked him for saving their life. George thought he’d had a good understanding of the practicality of their products before the war, but… he’d really had no idea.

  _It was made on a joke,_ he didn’t say, as someone earnestly described to him how their little brother’s stash of Skiving Snackboxes saved their entire family from Snatchers. A cleverly timed Puking Pastille could apparently make a difference between life and death.

  _It was made on a dare,_ he didn’t say, as someone tearfully relates to him how switching a fake wand for their real one allowed them to escape after being captured. A Death Eater tried to snap the fake wand and got a face full of rubber chicken, and that stunning squawk gave an innocent person the split-second they needed to pull their real wand.

  _It was made on a laugh,_ George didn’t say, as people told him again and again how Shield Cloaks and Headless Hats and Canary fucking Creams saved them. Extendable Ears and Decoy Detonators, made with the mischief of schoolchildren in mind, had _mattered_ more than he ever could have dreamed.

  _We just wanted to make people laugh, once upon a time,_ he didn’t say, _it wasn’t supposed to turn into so much more. It was never supposed to be so serious._

 “Hey, babe,” Lee says, dropping his head against George’s shoulder. “Those look… complicated.”

 George glances down at the notes he’d been working on, which at some point had stopped being brainstorm doodles and become Arithmancy equations, with just enough Ancient Runes and Charms to give any Arithmancer a small heart attack from trampled tradition and sheer recklessness. Lee traces one rune that means _hope,_ lips moving as he tries to follow the completely imaginary and contrary magic George has been brainstorming for an indeterminate amount of time.

 “I should have taken Arithmancy in school,” Lee murmurs finally, letting his fingers drop to George’s thigh. “ _You_ should have taken Arithmancy in school.”

 “And spent all that time listening to them tell us things we could work out on our own?” George asks. “That doesn’t sound nearly as fun.”

He considered taking his O.W.L.s again, actually bothering to really study and take those self-studied subjects this time, but… He’s already a successful businessman and inventor. He doesn’t need any arbitrary, made-by-purists-and-racists-and-ableists Ministry standards to tell him he knows what he’s talking about – he’s met magically-disabled individuals who can’t cast, can’t wield wands, and thus can’t take Ministry exams, but have forgotten more about magic than he’ll ever know – and he doesn’t think he can even visit the Ministry without vomiting entirely without a Puking Pastille. While it would be nice to walk in there, a Hogwarts dropout, and ace all their discriminating tests, if he does that… their results won’t match anymore. That can’t happen.

 “Besides,” George says, dropping his head against Lee’s soft locks. “I’d much rather have taken Muggle Studies with you, if I’d had to show up for an elective.”

 Lee groans. “Oh nooo, that would’ve been _awful._ I’d have gotten nothing done!”

 “Yeah, probably, but it would have been fun.”

 “So much fun,” Lee agrees, his hand now rubbing over George’s thigh.

 The movement is more comfort than distraction for the both of them, and George would probably file it under just another point of contact with his boyfriend, if his eyes weren’t caught by the fine pale lines in dark skin on the back of Lee’s hand. George can hardly help but stare at the words whenever he sees them. They’re too startlingly wrong.

  _I must not speak out of turn,_ say the words carved into Lee’s hand.

 George drops his pen onto his sketchbook so he can rest his hand on Lee’s, overtop the hideous words that a hideous woman should have never made him write. There are very faint ridges underneath George’s fingers, as he runs his hand over them, and the touch never fails to bubble up a seething sort of rage in him, no matter what he does, no matter how much time goes by.

 The worst part of it is that the toad who did that to Lee was only a part of a crowd, and so many of that crowd would have done the same, if not worse, to try and silence Lee. The worst part of it is that they still try to silence Lee, who has a voice and words that George could listen to forever, because they hate his happiness, his humor, his goodness, and his anger. The worst part is that George has caught Lee rubbing his hand sometimes, vulnerable and doubting and uncertain despite his attempts at indomitable confidence, after a particularly ugly response to one of his broadcasts. The worst part is everything about it.

 “…Hello,” Lee says quietly.

 “Hi,” George replies.

  The best part of it is watching Lee laugh on a good day when all the legislation has gone right and luck is on their side, sharing light-hearted quips with his listeners at the good news, unable to stop smiling. The best part of it is listening to Lee refute hated as if it simply isn’t worth hearing, much less debating, simple and devastating and charmingly cutting. The best part of it is Lee sitting up straight, shoulders set, and saying, _Yeah, no, it’s my turn to speak now. It’s my turn to say something. And it’s always going to be my turn to speak up and out and proud as long as I live. I’m not going to “behave” if you’re not going to treat people like living beings with rights. You behave._

 George has no idea how Lee does it, even as he carries his own anger and does his utmost to always stand by Lee’s side. Lee is so brave. George still has days where he feels like half a person. Maybe less.

 “Do you know _Alohomora?_ ” George asks.

 Lee’s brow scrunches up. “…Yeah? It’s a first-year spell, babe…”

 “Because you just unlocked my heart.”

 After a second’s silence, Lee bursts out laughing and presses his face into George’s chest. He curls against George’s arm and a little into George’s lap, shoulders shaking with laughter, and George has to put his sketchbook to the side so he can make them comfortable. Lee’s laughter is infectious, his loose hair tickling at George’s neck, his hands clutching at George’s sides, and George can feel Lee’s joy bubble into his own chest and up as a chuckle.

 “How many of these do you _have?_ ” Lee demands, when he can sit up again, pretending to wipe a tear away from his eye. He doesn’t sit up very far, though, just enough to raise his head, staying plastered to George’s side and maybe leaning a little more into George’s lap.

 “Well… how many do you want to hear?”

 “All of them,” Lee insists, bringing George’s face down for a smooch. “Everything you have to say.”

 One kiss turns into two… which turns into three… which turns into snogging on the sofa, which is always a favorite way to end the day. It’s hard to help it. Lee is always warm and soft and his kisses make the whole world go away for a while.

 Right now, they’re even better than usual, because Lee is still chuckling a little as they kiss. This makes George crack up too as he falls backwards so Lee can climb on top of him, all of which makes Lee laugh even harder. Snogging soon dissolves into trying and failing to make-out, laughing and giggling, faces and bodies pressed together. Like love is just the funniest fucking thing in a world made of two.

  _I want to hear everything you have to say too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> World-building Notes: 
> 
> 1\. Mr. Davis is an OC father for Tracey Davis, a canon barely-named female Slytherin student in Harry's year. A lot of my headcanons for Tracey can be seen in my _The Greengrass Sisters_ ficlet. 
> 
> 2\. I headcanon Diagon Alley as a larger district rather than a single street. I haven't looked at the official Diagon Alley maps, preferring to leave the area fairly large, mysterious, and open to all sorts of possibility. Vock Alley would be where things like the [Wizarding Academy of Dramatic Arts (a canon place)](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Wizarding_Academy_of_Dramatic_Arts) and other performance/art related places are located. Lee works here. 
> 
> 3\. I made the phrase carved into Lee's hand up. I wanted something simple yet striking, like Harry's. 
> 
> 4\. In this fic, magic exists more on a spectrum of ability. Magically disabled witches and wizards exist, are a part of the magical world, and have their own communities and often attend more local magical schools. I like to imagine that there are talented potion masters who can't filter their magic through typical wands, or talented wand-users who are "blind" to dementors and such, or just... people with average, everyday, magical disabilities, you know?


	2. The Persistence of Wednesdays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is mostly George and self-indulgent worldbuilding.

 Tomorrow is a Wednesday and George will never get over the persistence of Wednesdays. He’s seen the Ministry of Magic overthrown, woken up to find one of the greatest wizards of their age murdered, stayed despite fellow shopkeepers disappearing in the night, and yet… Wednesdays persist. The world could end today and it will still have been a Wednesday. There’s an invasion of boggarts across the country, terrifying countless people out of their wits, and yet… the days of the week persist. It’s still Wednesday.

 George and Lee wake up and go about their Wednesday morning routine, which is one of the better ones because Lee isn’t leaving bed, George, and the house before the sunrise to greet his listeners today. It’s their lazy morning. (Or at least Lee’s lazy morning, since George makes his own hours and the shop doesn’t even open until nine.) George cooks breakfast with a well-practiced lot of wand-waving, because he’s a Weasley and Molly Weasley didn’t raise any children who don’t know their way around a kitchen blindfolded, while Lee sings in the shower. Breakfast for two is served with a pleasant side of talk and laughter today, rounding off around ten o’clock, as is the Wednesday special.

 After breakfast, George and Lee clean up and get ready to start the day, and then they leave for Diagon hand-in-hand together. They start their goodbyes with a kiss, where Diagon Alley turns onto Vock, and a promise to meet each other after work to meet up with Ron and his friends at Harry’s work. One kiss, however, turns into two… which turns into three… which turns into light snogging… again.

 “Did you just cast a Permanent Sticking Charm?” George murmurs against his boyfriend’s neck, after he and Lee have been holding onto each other on a street corner without actually parting ways for at least five minutes now, even though they really ought to get moving. “Because I can’t seem to let you go.”

 Lee laughs and George gets another kiss for that one, a quick peck that just misses the lips.

 “You’re gonna have to, babe,” Lee says. “Mr. Davis will freak if I quit work for a calling in street performance art.”

 “I guess we are attracting stares,” George says, a little sadly, turning his head to see if the old woman who owns the tea shop at Vock and Diagon is glaring out her grubby windows at them again.

 Not at all to his surprise, she is, and narrows her eyes at him when he dares stare back. He narrows his eyes back at her. If they stand here and cuddle for five minutes longer, she’ll probably come out to rant at them about the indecency of public displays of affection and showing ankle and whatnot again. It's tempting. Not that George really needs the incentive of scandalizing old-fashioned biddies to make out with his boyfriend against a wall, but there’s just something about indignant outrage and throbbing forehead veins that make his heart go all aflutter.

 “Must be Wednesday,” Lee says laughingly, finally pulling away. “I’ll see you later, babe.”

 George reluctantly lets go, holding on until the last finger slips from his hand. Lee gives him a cheery grin and wave over his shoulder, then bounces down Vock, locked hair swinging and him whistling his favorite Warbeck song again. George watches him go, more than a little smitten, until he can’t see Lee any longer and really does have nothing better to do than go to work.

 He sighs and turns down Diagon, pulling his bag higher on his shoulder. Figuring out how to make anti-boggart tools for people who can’t cast the average spells isn’t going to happen on its own. Those sketches from last night sounded good _last night_ , but now it’s time to get to work and see how they hold up.

 ~

 It’s weird what things change and what stays the same when your whole world gets turned upside-down, inside-out, and then shaken a few times for good measure. Some things just don’t work like they used to – if they work at all, afterwards. The weirdest part, however, might just be how some things just don’t change at all.

 George still needs space and time, so he can spread out his thoughts without being disturbed, and look at them all at once. He still has a bad habit of locking the door, like he’s hiding something, much to Ron’s chagrin. He never manages to work a problem out in anything resembling a neat and orderly fashion. And he still talks through the problem aloud, bouncing ideas off the walls, as though the walls will offer him a secondary opinion and some ideas of their own. They never do, but he doesn’t expect them to now, and he’s not about to break the habit.

 Another weird part of this process is that George can stand silence if he’s thinking through a problem in his sketchbook, but when he’s actually tinkering and talking aloud… he can’t stand silence. He can’t stand the sound of his own voice for too long, apparently. So he switches on the radio, which hasn’t left Lee’s station in months, and lets it chatter in the background while he works.

 Which is why, that afternoon, he gets to hear his boyfriend’s fellow The Knight Watch radio host, Davis Jr., give a very flat: _“…What the hex is that?”_

Which happens because George accidentally blows himself up again, just a little bit. Thankfully, his office has been fireproofed and is more or less indestructible by this point, but it still makes a very loud sound (George is thankfully wearing earplugs, having long since learned his lesson) and George has to fling the window open so he can banish all the bright purple smoke outside. The sound and column of smoke, he’s sure, can be seen from Vock and beyond; he can probably expect to get some sort of Ministry warning again, which he will dutifully add to the stack of them he has impaled on a barbecue skewer on his shelf.

 Percy was _aghast_ to learn that George had just been tossing them out before.

 As expected, Ron trudges upstairs within five minutes or so, then leans unhelpfully against the doorway and George chases the last of the stubborn smoke out of his office. George has a very respectable column of smoke pouring out his window, trailing off now, and he imagines it probably looks spectacular from the street. Thankfully, like Ron, Diagon Alley is very much used to this – and further fortunately, the smoke is basically harmless.

 “You’ve lost your eyebrows,” Ron says finally.

 “They’ll grow back,” George replies, unconcerned, as he goes over to poke at his Boggart-Catcher to figure out what the hell went wrong. It’s not the first time he’s lost his eyebrows, nor will it be the last. He’s gotten pretty good at regrowing them with magic now, actually, and he knows by experience that Lee will still love him without eyebrows – as long as he gets to laugh his ass off at George first.

 “Your employees all think you’re nuts.”

 “They’re young and foolish, and ought to have learned by now that I am _definitely_ nuts,” George says, still unconcerned. He sighs, remembering one of his first employees, who knew things like this for certain. “I miss Angelina.”

 “Shouldn’t have invested in her, then, mate.”

 George snorts, accidentally inhaling a bit of smoke, and coughs.

 “Ahh, shit,” he says, hoarsely, clearing his throat with fond memory. “She would have robbed me blind anyway.”

 Angelina and Lee both worked at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes for a time. Straight after their seventh year, Angelina and Lee, official Hogwarts graduates, helped them set up their shop and were more or less their first employees until things really got started. Lee ran off to work for Mr. Davis a few months later, Angelina stayed for a few months more until she went off to work and do a bit of backpacking in Europe with her cousins for a while, and they both came back when the war really got started. Lee came back when his job went up in flames and Angie when her aunt was hospitalized.

 After the war was over, Lee and Angie stayed and helped George re-open the shop a couple months after the Battle of Hogwarts. It was a slow-going rebuilding process, but it never would have happened at all without Lee and Angie helping him out. Lee went to work with Mr. Davis again by the time the year was out, but Angie stayed as a general manager for a couple years before she came to George with a business proposal. George, more than a little stunned, had tried to point out something or other in counter-argument, but Angelina had slammed him with the point that he definitely _was_ an experienced business owner and investor, given that he’d helped build or rebuild over two dozen other shops in Diagon over the past two years. So Angelina left and Ron came in soon after to replace her.

 Angelina runs a gym of sorts over on Diurn Alley now – alongside good friends like Alicia Spinnet, Katie Bell, Katie’s fiancée Sarah Sloane, and Demelza Robins – which has become more of a community center in recent years, as Angie is getting more support from Hogwarts, local and smaller magical schools, and the Ministry’s Department of Magical Games and Sports. She does a lot to promote physical fitness and sports, both magical and non-magical, running fitness classes for adults and working with a lot of youth programs. Last George heard, Angelina was talking about partnering with the Holyhead Harpies and the Equal Rites Organization for a Young Witches Quidditch Association program that includes poorer girls and young witches all across the magical ability spectrum.

 The story made short is that she’s been incredibly successful and George and Lee are ridiculously proud of her.

 They both enjoy helping out with the youth Quidditch camps every summer – the kids get such a kick out of having Lee as their announcer and the legendary owner of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes there to play with them. The last camps ended a few weeks ago, when the kids went back to school. George misses them all already.

 “She’s just down the street,” Ron says, folding his arms.

 “Nah, that’s too far,” George complains, already planning to take a lunch down in Diurn as soon as he gets the mess cleaned up. He can clear his head and see if the girls are having any Boggart trouble, ask them if they have any ideas for what a Boggart-Be-Gone kit should include and how to get rid of one without a wand.

 “She’s closer than Lee.”

 “Angie won’t make out with me,” George argues.

 “Ugh.”

 Before Angie left, she and George almost got to that point – they had a lot of feelings all mixed up around each other, after all – and they probably wouldn’t have been half-bad together for a couple months or so. Thankfully, they found the courage to have an actual, extremely awkward conversation and mutually decided that it was for the best that they never actually reach for that point. Skip it all, spare each other, and save the trouble. Despite the entire affair being quite painful, George is glad that he and Angie almost happened.

 Firstly, because it’s over and done with, and they never have to come back to that ever again.

 Secondly, because the accumulated drama of the entire affair was scandalous, riveting, and beautiful in hindsight in the way that both the first brushes of love and broomstick accidents are beautiful. George and Angelina now both have hideously embarrassing stories to hold over each other forever.

 Thirdly, because the culminating moment of the drama was Lee confessing his feelings on live radio, a short rooftop chase, and a kiss that turned into two that turned into three that turned into George making out with his future boyfriend in the rain. Every painful moment of George and Angie’s almost romance was worth it for those wonderful moments, which ended in George and Lee mutually becoming the luckiest wizards alive.

 Fourthly, because dumping the mere idea of dating George Weasley’s sorry arse allowed Angelina to meet and be wooed by Klaus Flume, the Honeydukes’ owners’ Durmstrang-graduate great-grandson recently returned from studying in Germany, who is just a beautiful human being. Klaus is absolutely head over heels for Angelina, as she rightly deserves, and can make a Prinzregententorte that once made Lee literally cry from pure joy. Angelina wouldn’t make out with George if he ever even wanted to ask, because she wants for nothing and definitely doesn’t want him.

 “Diurn and Vock are way too far,” George informs his younger brother, thoughtlessly answering as he focuses on closing up the remains of his Boggart-Catcher. “Far too far. I need everyone to be much closer.” He absentmindedly raises a hand and waves in it in the air next to him, gesturing to a general space where a person might be. “About that close all the time would be good. Just right here.”

 It takes George longer than it should to realize what exactly he’s just said. In fact, he doesn’t even realize it by himself, instead looking up and over to Ron when his younger brother takes too long to quip back at him. Ron has a pained, almost grimace on his face that he doesn’t manage to hide fast enough, which prompts George to immediately revise his previous statement to figure out what accidentally inappropriate thing he’s said now.

 When it hits him, he can feel it against his ribs like a hex.

 He looks away, glancing at the clock and rubbing a hand over his missing ear, before he decidedly flicks his wand at a preservation cover and tosses it haphazardly over his failed Boggart-Catcher. It’s a bit late for lunch, actually, but he had a late enough start to the day to excuse it.

 “I’m going to Angie’s for lunch,” George says, moving past Ron without looking at his brother’s face.

 “Alright.”

 “Don’t let the store catch fire again.”

 Ron sighs, before saying heatedly, “That was _once_ and it was your fault in the first place.”

 “Don’t wait up!”

 ~

  George wanders into the Chasing Fitness Center’s front lobby around three in the afternoon and is immediately greeted by a six foot tall poster of his sister, set up behind the front desk with eerie similarity to a shrine. Poster Ginny Weasley is sitting astride her Firebolt Inferno, a Quaffle in hand, loose hair blowing gently in a breeze, wearing a sleeveless Holyhead Harpies top and astoundingly tight Quidditch leggings underneath only the bottom half of her protective sporting gear. She alternates between flexing her arms for viewers, doing handstands and other tricks that show off things like the thickness of her thighs or her dexterity with a Quaffle, and… winking flirtily.

 “That’s… new,” George says, as he leans on the front desk.

 Sarah Sloane, Katie’s fiancée and front desk worker, squeaks and spins around so fast that her wheelchair, which George had the pleasure of helping make basically indestructible, puts a dent three inches deep into a filing cabinet. Sarah’s short hair is dyed bright green today, so between that and her lime eyeshadow with gold flecks, she looks not unlike a strawberry when her pale cheeks turn bright red at the sight of him.

 “George!” she says, so loudly that she attracts the attention of half the lobby and makes herself wince. “We didn’t think you’d be coming in today!”

 George takes another glance above the desk at the giant poster version of his sister, who just kissed her own admittedly impressive bicep. And speaking of kisses, he’s fairly certain that the reddish stains near the bottom of the poster are lipstick marks – in nearly the entire summer color set from Teen Witch Weekly’s second August issue, as a matter of fact. 

 “Uh huh,” he says.

 Sarah looks like she can’t decide whether to Vanish herself or wheel away at top speed.

 “Sorry! We, um, usually take that down when you come over,” she admits. “It’s… it’s not new. Sorry.”

 “Does Ginny know?” George asks, out of something between fascination and horror. “Oh, wait, never mind. I can see that she signed it with love to all of you.” Because of course she did; George doesn’t even know why he asked. “Very nice of her.”

 Sarah squeaks again, less surprised and more mortified. It might have been supposed to be words.

 George, however, is more focused on the fact that, while _he_ skimmed the original photos in Teen Witch Weekly sometime earlier this year, he’s not sure if his mother knows about the existence of this photoshoot. He has the dreadful feeling that Molly Weasley does not, in fact, know about this. It’ll come out eventually – hah, _come out_ – but maybe he can trick one of his brothers into being the one to bring down the wraths of both Molly and Ginny by telling. Bill’s too clever for that, Percy’s getting smarter, and Ron’s well-trained not to say a word by now, so it’ll have to be Charlie, who’s away enough and spacey enough to fall into a well-laid trap.

 “Anyway,” George says, putting all that off for later, “I’m here to see Angie. Is she in her office or the back?”

 “Oh, Angie’s not actually here! She and Lee went out somewhere over an hour ago.”

 This knocks George a little aback from surprise for two reasons. Firstly, because Angelina can almost always be found here, some degree of free, on Wednesday afternoons. Secondly, because Lee didn’t say anything about lunch plans with Angelina, and it’s unlike the both of them to take over an hour for lunch – they _love_ their jobs and Lee wouldn’t do that to Mr. Davis without warning – so this doesn’t sound like a spontaneous meal date. Either some emergency came up or Lee uncharacteristically either forgot to mention he had plans with Angelina today or didn't tell George. 

 “…Do you know where?”

 “Nope!” Sarah says. “And I just realized I probably wasn’t supposed to tell you that. Sorry.”

 “Alright then,” George says, shelfing whatever that is for later.

 So, George’s plans of chatting with Angie are out the window. He doesn’t want to walk all the way back to the shop so soon, because he’d rather avoid the mandatory awkward almost-discussion and hug session with Ron for as long as possible, and he probably really needs to clear his head and have a good conversation with someone. Fortunately, Angie isn’t the only friend he has here.

 “So, how’re you, Sarah?” George says, stepping to the side so a witch can hand Sarah her gym pass. 

 Sarah shrugs and signs the witch in, wishing her a good day and a bright smile. It’s as Sarah’s face is forced into a cheerful shape that George finally notices her eye make-up is a little thicker and the grey bags underneath are darker than usual, her voice is high and there’s a bit of strain around all her edges.

 “I’ve been better,” Sarah answers. “How’re you? What happened to your eyebrows?” 

 George moves around the desk to take the spare seat, which is usually occupied by another trainer. “Oh, you know, the usual,” he says, dropping down next to Sarah behind the desk. “I’ve learned it’s best to let them sizzle for a bit before trying to regrow them. Otherwise they come in like caterpillars. But really, how're you? Did something happen?”

 Sarah closes a desk drawer a little too hard, a bitter twist to her bright green lips. “Oh, you know, the _usual._ ” 

 ~

 It turns out that the Sloanes have already had an encounter with one of the boggarts on the loose and, by the sound of it, a particularly large and nasty one. Boggarts are attracted to magical homes more than non-magical homes, which is generally fortunate for Statute of Secrecy issues, but unfortunate for anyone who lives in a magical house but isn’t able to easily deal with the accompanying pests. If it had been Sarah or her sister, Senior Auror Sophie Sloane, home at the time of incident, things would have been fine, but it was their widowed mother and the Sloane sisters are both Muggleborn.

 Even fully trained and wand-able witches and wizards sometimes have trouble recognizing a boggart – the sudden appearance of a horrific fear putting people off-balance enough not to realize it isn’t real. Fear distorts things like that, it's sort of the point. 

 Mrs. Sloane, who is entirely non-magical and not well-versed in magical creatures, came face to face with an inferi suffering from a Flesh-Eating Curse, and couldn’t do more than scream and run. She locked herself in her bedroom and stayed there for three hours, listening to the boggart moan and scratch at the door, before Sarah came home and face to face with her own worst fear: the Death Eater who’d cast the irreversible Corpse-Rot Curse on her legs. Transfiguring and cackling at that, apparently, had been very cathartic, but Mrs. Sloane hadn’t been able to roll (pun not intended) with facing a boggart like her daughters could.

 Sarah’s sister may work for the D.M.L.E., but that only means Sarah is well-informed and has _plenty_ to say about the Ministry's inner workings. Especially the Ministry’s first reactive decision of trying to prevent panic by not telling people about a serious problem. Apparently, the Ministry’s new Head of the D.M.L.E. – a Fudge-administration-era ex-auror running on seniority and friends in high places – backtracked on that disastrous decision as of this morning and is now very blandly and quietly admitting that there may be some issues with boggart infestations for the foreseeable future.

 Sarah spent her lunch break finishing up a furious letter to the editor about it all that she plans on sending off to every available publication as soon as she gets off work. It's a brilliant read that George immediately volunteers to pitch to Lee and Mr. Davis.

 “Boggart-Be-Gone kits are an _amazing_ idea,” Sarah says, after George pitches the idea to her. She already has a list of things that she and her sister have put together for their mother in case there’s another incident, during and aftermath recovery, even though Mrs. Sloane has gone to stay with Katie’s parents for a while.

 Unfortunately, Sarah doesn’t have suggestions for how to deal with boggarts without a wand.

 The trouble with boggarts, George and Sarah can both agree, is that while they’re fear-feeding pests rather than carnivorous predators – most of the time, unless they get _really_ big, sort of like catfish – they’re incredibly slippery and difficult to deal with. Laughter and focused Transfiguration really are their only known weaknesses, beyond abnormally powerful Light charms of a Patronus level. Since they’re shape-shifters, boggarts can’t even be set on fire or hit repeatedly with a Beater bat, which is just unfair, and trapping one takes a ridiculous (pun intended) amount of effort and skill. George needs to do some more research because, that while he blew himself up earlier is argument enough for more research, he isn’t actually sure if there’s a way to exterminate them. Frankly, he has no idea how the late Remus Lupin managed to keep them locked up so tightly _and_ catch them in the first place.

 George misses having Remus and Sirius to ask these sorts of questions of. As soon as they’d gotten over the fact that their ex-professor and Harry’s ex-convict godfather were Moony and Padfoot – which had taken at least three days of sheer disbelief and outrage towards Harry for keeping such a monumental secret – Remus and Sirius had become role models and teachers beyond the map, always with a helpful suggestion, obscure spell, vaguely inappropriate wisecrack, hilarious story, or useful don’t-try-this-you’ll-blow-up-don’t-ask-me-how-I-know piece of advice. George misses them a lot, whenever he takes the time to allow himself those sorts of thoughts.

 When George finally realizes he maybe ought to check his watches, he realizes that it’s been two hours. He and Sarah have, while Sarah checks in customers and does her daily paperwork, ranted and debated at each other all the way to five o’clock in the afternoon. Alicia passed by at some point, but George hasn’t seen a braid or lock of Angelina or Lee, who are definitely not on a really late lunch break. Really, where are they?

 “I should get going,” George says finally. “I have to talk with a man about a boggart in thirty minutes.”

 “Sure. Let me know how those Boggart-Be-Gone kits go.”

 “Will do,” George promises. “See you, Sarah.”

 “Have a good one, George!”

 George waves and gives Sarah a wink as he goes, knowing that he has to go reassure Ron that he’s alright and hasn’t fallen into a ditch before he goes to meet up with Lee. Sarah waves back and, right behind her, Poster Ginny Weasley flexes her arms again and winks back. Which is… a Thing. George will be having words with his younger sister about her photoshoots and sparing her poor brothers this sort of thing that causes involuntary shudders.

 Diurn Alley is still bright with late afternoon light and busy with people going about their business: coming off work to do shopping and head home, or coming in for night shifts or a night out in the district. George sticks his hands in his pockets and wanders back up towards Diagon and Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, nodding to various shop owners and other people he knows as he goes. He excuses himself from conversation with a couple of them, using his previous engagement as a polite out, a little too tired to make conversation with acquaintances and essential strangers at the moment anyway.

 Ron is counting one of the tills behind the counter when George enters Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, while another employee helps customers at the other register, and the first thing George’s younger brother says to him is, “You still don’t have eyebrows.”

 “I was thinking about only growing one back,” George says conversationally, “to match my ear.”

 “Please do.”

 George raises an arm to check the time, his identical watches informing him that it’s now ten minutes past five o’clock. “Well, I’m back and I’m going out again. I’m going to meet up with Lee. We’ll see you at the Hog’s Head in twenty minutes or so?” The shop can manage without him or Ron for an evening. 

 “Ah, no, there’s been a change in plans,” Ron says. “Hermione’s got a sudden thing at the Ministry and I’m going to help her with that, and Harry left work early about an hour ago. He says you and Lee can come and meet him at Andy’s for dinner instead. I’ll talk to Hermione about getting back to you later this week, if that’s alright.”

 “Yeah, that sounds fine. I thought Harry didn’t visit Teddy and Andy on Wednesdays, though.”

 Ron shrugs. “Usually, yeah, but apparently a boggart got in, so… stuff changes.”

  _Stuff changes,_ George thinks again. _Stuff changes and shit happens and Wednesdays persist. Incredible._

 “Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

 “Yep.”

 “Goodnight, Won-Won.”

 “’Night, Holey.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Harry, Andromeda, and Teddy! And Lee is back! 
> 
> World-building Notes: 
> 
> 1\. Sarah Sloane is the sister of Sophie Sloane from my fic [_Into the Arena_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4472270/chapters/10164680). Sarah was also previously mentioned in my fic [_Or the Look Or the Words_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8274067) as "Katie Bell’s ‘girlfriend’ Sarah who was her _girlfriend_ ". The Sloanes are all OCs.
> 
> 1a. Sarah is in a wheelchair because a Corpse-Rot Curse during the war essentially ate away her legs below the thigh. While magic can do wonderful things, it can do terrible things like this. The HP universe is clearly still developing spells and potions (see the invention of the Wolfsbane Potion or Dragon Pox), so there would be curses, poisons, accidents, and such that they don't know how to "fix". Medicine is a lot of trial and error, curses and viruses develop too, and I imagine magic might even complicate stuff more than it makes things easier. Magic would, however, I think make accessibility a lot easier, so long as people weren't assholes. 
> 
> 2\. Angelina's mentioned cousins are Joyce and Contence Summerbee, OCs that previously appeared in my Harry the Hufflepuff ficlet and have been mentioned in passing in other fics of mine like [_Across the Path_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8517286/chapters/19522336). 
> 
> 3\. The Flumes are canon characters (to the movies, I believe). I've mentioned them before in fics of mine like [_Face Death in the Hope_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5986366/chapters/13756558) and [_A Very Nice Thing To Say_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8167328/chapters/18714872). Their great-grandson, Klaus, is an OC of mine as of this fic. 
> 
> 4\. The Equal Rites Organization is something I came up with after writing that Goblet of Fire post with Phil and Cassius. It was founded by Rachel Lerner, Phil's mother, who will be showing up later in this fic. 
> 
> 5\. Diurn Alley is another of my personal headcanons for the Diagon Alley Shopping District. It's my counter to Knockturn Alley. It hosts places like the Equal Rites Organization and Angelina's gym, places that are largely Muggleborn-founded, Muggleborn-run, and generally very pro-Muggleborn, the integration of magical diversity, and equal rights.


	3. The Light of Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer and later than I meant it to be.

 With the change in plans, George leaves Ron to look after the shop and wanders off towards Vock to meet up with Lee at his boyfriend’s place of work, as planned. Unfortunately, Lee isn’t waiting at Rebel Radio station as planned, and all George gets is an apologetic note delivered by Lee’s co-host on _The Knight Watch_ , Tracey Davis. Anything would be a poor replacement for his boyfriend, but a note is especially lacking in the smiles, snogging, and puns that George was looking forward to getting.

 “We got a tip for a scoop on the Ministry’s handling of this boggart bullshit, like, a half-hour ago and he ran off,” Tracey says apologetically, from where she’s supervising a broadcast. “He said he’d meet up with you at the place about the thing? Wherever you two were planning to go." After a beat, she adds, "Nice eyebrows.”

 “Thanks. Lots of work to catch up on?”

 “What?”

 “Today’s his late day and took a long lunch break, right? Unexpectedly busy day?”

 It wouldn’t be the first time that Lee or George have had to cancel plans because of work surprising them at the last moment, especially Lee.

 Tracey, also known Davis Jr., gives him a very knowing look. “You could say that,” she says, and pulls a pencil out of her bushy hair to scribble something on what looks like a script. “But when isn’t it a busy day around here for people who dare to give a damn? Sometimes we gotta run off at the drop of a hat to get the story. Sometimes we gotta take a break before we burn out. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, George, but Lee Jordan gives a lot of damns.”  

 He does and George loves him for it. George loves him for a lot of things.  

 It's also why George worries about Lee. 

 “I noticed,” George says, and gives Tracey his own very knowing look. She’s more Lee’s friend than his, but he knows she knows something. “I notice a lot of things.”

 “Yeah, sure,” she says, as uncaringly as probably only someone with the guts to elope with very disdainful Greengrass heiress can manage. There’s very few things, at this point, which intimidate a Davis. Lee could be committing a crime right now and the Davises would be his alibi, which is as worrying as it is reassuring. George would help too, if only he knew what trouble Lee was getting up to.

 “Anyway, speaking of busyness: that’s me," Tracey says. "Unless you want to be on air improvising a bit for us in five minutes, I need you out of my studio. Shoo.”

 George sighs. “Alright. I’ll shoo myself out.”

 Tracey laughs, but doesn’t start spilling less vague information. Scheming, uncooperative snake. George has to admit defeat. He steps out of the station onto Vock Alley and then, after a moment of thought and with a note in his pocket, he steps again. This time: with a twist. 

~

 The world twists and untwists around him, and George rides the split-second spiral through space. Then the world smooths and he steps confidently out into Hogsmeade without so much as a pause in his stride. George Weasley doesn’t Apparate nearly as much as he used to, but he hasn’t lost the knack for it, and he’d like to think he’s got a knack for walking on while the world spins and he twists himself into knots.

 Just after the war, he’d needed to escape from any number of nouns – people, places, things – frequently. Even if he liked those nouns, sometimes it was all... just... a bit too much. Too much of everything. So, sometimes he’d get up and just… go. Places. Somewhere. Anywhere. Go find something or someone else to distract him. It drove Lee and Angelina around the bend, not to mention his family, and they’ve all made no secret of their relief that George has dropped the habit of Apparating about at a whim and kept his strolling about to some usual stomping grounds.

 True to Ron’s word, there’s no sign of Harry in the Hog’s Head when George pokes his own head through the door for a tick. He waves at a predictably grumpy Aberforth, who doesn’t look pleased at being there and even less pleased at being interacted with, even in passing.

 So, George sidles away from the Hog’s Head and lets himself into Honeydukes. He won’t be caught out not bringing gifts. After all, though shit happens and plans change, George still has a reputation and tradition to maintain. He will not disappoint one of the singularly most important people in his life, even spontaneously called to action. On his own head be it if he ever fails them.

 George gives old Mrs. Flume his most charming grin, as he sweeps through the door and greets her with the most outrageous flirting he can come up with on the fly. The sweet shop closes at six today, but he can’t let his wheedling skills go rusty for the day when he forgets their schedule. She winks back – because hey, he’s still got it, even if he personally felt like he wasn't spewing his best nonsense for her – from where she’s supervising the shelves restocking themselves, and she ignores his flirting in favour of telling him to get his skinny arse in the back already to say hello to Klaus.

 In the back of house of Honeydukes, in the kitchen where the magic happens, Angelina Johnson’s fiancé is putting the finishing touches on an elaborate cake.

 This cake, of course, looks nothing like a traditional cake. It doesn’t even look like cake.

 The beauty and architectural genius of this “cake” would put any ancient structure to shame. The “cake”, as it is so mind-bogglingly called, is in the shape a gravity-defying cascade of flowers falling upwards, many of those flowers opening or closing their bright petals as George comes into the room. Some strain and unfurl, glow and shine, turning and twisting for a comfortable spot, especially as a contained breeze dances a dozen free petals and leaves softly around the spiral of vibrant flora.

 Mostly daisies and sweet pea, if George knows his flowers rightly, and in mostly vibrant reds and sunshine yellow and gold. Those are Gryffindor colours, with some allowance for brushes of fiery orange, lacings of green leaves, and some pieces of the usual bouquet garnish. Very nice.

 It really, _really_ doesn’t look like cake.

 Hovering gently over his masterpiece is Klaus Flume, a very wide man with a matching smile and very dark skin. He’s muttering to himself, or perhaps coaxing perfection from his creation, in soft German again. His wand moves slowly over the petals of a daisy, turning a simple orange into a glowing, frosted sunset of colours. His pink hat and the pink apron stretched over his belly are gently splattered with chocolate of many colours.

The grumbling of George’s stomach greets Klaus before he can.

 “George, my friend! Please, sit! Sit! I will be with you in just a moment.” Klaus Flume doesn’t pause in moving his wand over his creation, a piece of edible art that George couldn’t possibly even bear to eat if he even knew how to begin about eating it.

 “How are you today?” Klaus continues. “There are shavings of cake beside you, please, help yourself! You’re still too skinny! Have you been eating well?”

 “Anyone who hasn’t been eating your creations isn’t eating well,” George answers cheerily, reaching over to the table and popping a chip of cake into his mouth. It melts over his mouth and he nearly moans for the drama of it. He shoots Angelina’s fiancé a sultry look and strikes a languid pose. “Run away with me, darling, please.”

 Klaus laughs, full-bellied and lovely. “No! Your compliments are too much for me!”

 “They don’t begin to describe you enough!”

 “It’s your weight that’s not enough,” Klaus answers, spinning into existence a sugar flower the colours of a soft sunset. “Eat! Eat! How is the shop? How is Lee?”

 “The shop’s doing well,” George answers. “Lee’s doing great, but alas, never nearly as great as he deserves. Flowers thrown at his feet, carpets rolled out, theme music with a full orchestra upon entering every room, then we’d be talking.”

 Klaus nods very seriously to this. “It is a disgrace.”

“Tragic,” George agrees. “How’s Angie, you angelic man?”

 “Ah, very well! Though, as you say, not nearly in the heaven that she deserves.”

 “Of course. You know, I went to go visit her this afternoon.”

 “Oh?” Klaus says.

 There is a lot that isn’t said in that word. Klaus is suddenly _very_ focused on his cake made of flowers, even more so than before, suddenly overcome with the minuscule details of his art and unable to look up. George has never in his life been so intensely and nonchalantly ignored.

 The baker man knows something, George can tell.

 Klaus knows something just like Sarah knew something. Just like Tracey knew something. They all know something and they’re not saying it.

 “Yeah,” George says, and helps himself to Klaus’ leftover pieces of cake. _Mistake._ It’s hard to be nonchalant while eating veritable ambrosia. “She wasn’t in, which was weird, because she’s usually in on Wednesday afternoons, you know? Sarah told me that Angie and Lee had gone out to lunch together, but they never came back. Which is also weird, because it’s not like them to disappear like that, and it’s not like Lee not to mention lunch plans with someone. He usually invites me.”

 George has, over the course of this speech, pitched his voice increasingly sadly. Klaus hasn’t looked at him through any of it. No, Klaus is very, very carefully building a breath-taking rose-shape out of soft red sweet pea flowers that look like they’d melt on a tongue. He can’t look at George while doing that, of course not, even though he’s known for his compassionate listening.

 “That is strange,” Klaus says agreeably. “I do not know why he would do such a thing.”

 “…What do you know, you darling angel?” George demands.

 “I do not know what you’re talking about,” Klaus says, and attaches the “rose” to the beautiful cascade of cake flowers. “What a question! The antics and business of you and Lee and my Angie are far beyond a simple maker of cakes such as I. Do not scoff, it is true. I am a simple man of simple tastes. Do _not_ scoff.” When he turns to face George, there is a chiding twinkle in his eyes and he waggles a finger. “I think this is a question you must ask of Lee.”

 “And ruin all the fun of snooping?” George replies. “No, thanks, you wily, uncooperative masterpiece of a man. I'll figure this out on my own.” He raises his pieces of cake in a toast. “This is a gorgeous and delicious creation, Klaus. Bravo. What poor soul has to destroy this piece of artwork?”

 Klaus scoffs, but he’s smiling widely again. “I would think you of all people, George, who has managed to rid himself of his own eyebrows yet again,” he chides, “would recognize that some things are their most beautiful because they are temporary. They are meant to last only in our memories. They are meant to be eaten! And to bring joy! …Though in my case, this joy is not brought by people being suddenly sick because of what they eat.”

 George snorts. “I hope not.” 

 “As do I,” Klaus sighs, deep and delighted. “Very good for your business. Very, _very_ bad for mine. Oh, the many wonders of magic, George.”

 His wistfulness makes George laugh aloud. 

 Klaus, looking very pleased with himself, then twinkles playfully and asks: “Have you never wanted to eat a flower?” 

 George thinks about it. “Alright,” he says honestly. “You got me there.”

 Art or not, the chance to eat a delicious flower is very tempting.

  _Oh._  

 Edible flower bouquets. George needs to make a note about _edible_ flower bouquets. The side effects? He’s not sure of those quite yet, but he can imagine all the teachers’ expressions at their students eating flowers like cows chewing cud. It would look beautifully absurd. Side effects should probably have something to do with animals. Mooing? Ears? Tails? He needs to make a note on this. Even if they turn out more genuinely romantic than hilarious, they'd still be fun. 

 If George has his way, Valentine’s Day will never be the same again.

 “I am afraid to ask what is going through your head, my friend,” Klaus says. He doesn’t sound afraid, though, he sounds jolly and unsurprised. Most of the people George knows are very used to this, and he’s glad to have them.

 “I’ll dedicate the inspiration to you,” George assures him, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

 “That is what I am afraid of.”

 “Be not afraid of greatness, Klaus,” George quips, and winks. “When it’s thrust upon you.”

 Klaus waggles a warning finger at him, but cannot seem to help smiling anyway. “I know the context of that quote, my too thin and too clever friend.” He puts his wand aside and reaches for a cloth to clean his hands. “What can I do for you, George? You are not here just to ‘snoop’ and be fed, or I would have made a fat man of you yet.”

 “You got me again, you darling angel. I’m after some chocolate! Your very best!”

 “That, I can do. What is the occasion?”

 “A sad one, I’m afraid, which is why chocolate is in order.”

 “Chocolate is in order for every occasion, both happy and sad,” Klaus says, immovably.

 “You see,” George continues. “I’m off to Andromeda Tonks’ house to meet with Harry. A boggart got in and…”

 George trails off, because the jolly twinkle in Klaus’ eye has become one of horrified concern. In his explanation, George had been so struck at his own genius and thoughtfulness for seeking out chocolate – and his investigation and Klaus’ uncooperativeness in that investigation – that he forgot the sheer force of Klaus Flume’s concern and good will for all people. Klaus may not know Andy and her grandchild well, but that has never mattered with him. Though George may have walked in here with every intention of paying full-price for all the chocolate that he could reasonably carry, now he realizes this may be a battle on every point of his intentions.

 George reaches slowly for his wallet, like he might slowly reach for a wand if he were facing a dragon.

 Klaus is quicker, and points at the offending hand like a man ready to lop it off.

 “Do not dare,” Klaus says sharply.

~

 What ensues, well, George would have liked to call it a battle for the ages.

 However, if one could call it a battle at all, the objective result would be a staggering, rather embarrassing loss on George’s part.

 Soon enough, George finds himself, without having much say in the matter, holding a stack of classic Honeydukes sweets, experimental Klaus Flume originals, a more traditional-looking cake, and no less than three different pies. This enormous, armful of a stack – no, really, George’s arms are inconveniently full – Is even tied up with a bow for his convenience.

 “You are a good friend, Georgie, to think of Mrs. Tonks and her grandson in their time of need,” Mrs. Flume says as she rings him through at the front corner. She reaches over the stack to pat him on the cheek with a wrinkled hand, and George leans obligingly sideways and forward so she doesn’t have to reach too far.

 “Thanks, Mrs. Flume,” George says. “Are you sure I can’t talk you above half-price?”

 “No. Nein. Not at all,” Klaus says firmly, from the doorway to the back.

 He has both George and his great-grandmother under his watchful eye, just in case either of them tries to insist that George pay full price.

 Klaus can’t see his great-grandmother roll her eyes, but George can.

 “Well, thanks for everything, Mrs. Flume,” George says, as she tucks his receipt under one of the ribbons. He has just enough manoeuvrability to have his wand in one hand and to have a handful of galleons hidden under the cake. “Thank you, Klaus, you beautiful, tight-lipped wonder of a man who won’t run away with me.”

 “Anytime, my friend,” Klaus says beamingly.

 “You really shouldn’t make promises like that,” George warns playfully. He flicks his wand at the shop door, so he can make his way outside, where it’s polite and possible to Apparate. “They’re dangerous things. Anywaaay… here’s a bonus for the service, bye, Klaus!”

 And with that, George drops the galleons on the counter and books it.

 Klaus’ aghast bellowing is immediately on George’s heels. “George! Come back and take your too much money!” By the footsteps bearing down, Klaus isn’t far behind his yelling. “I have told you, you are my _friend_ , and you _always_ overpay us! Come back here at once-!”

 “Sorry, can’t hear you!” George calls, while he spins on his heel to fit through the door. “But you’re welcome for the bonus,” he says, and he winks around the stack in his arms as he lets himself fall easily, fearlessly backwards, out the door, off the front step, and towards the ground.

 It’s the slow, backwards fall of the man who fully trusts that someone will catch him before impact, or is determined to hit the ground with great comedic effect. George knows because he’s had many exasperated, briefly alarmed friends and family members tell him so, and because George put in a lot of effort practicing Apparition in front of mirrors once upon a time. One leg raised high, arms full of precious cargo, with a confident wink and grin, he falls background.

 After all, what’s the point of being able to appear and disappear near-instantaneously if a person’s not going to put a little fun and showmanship into it?

 What’s the point of much of anything if a person’s not going to put a little fun and showmanship into it?

 The last thing George sees is Klaus’ partly horrified, partly exasperated expression, as George falls into his own twisting and, a half-second before he might hit the ground, gets tugged away.

 ~

 The first thing that George would say about his Apparition antics is that they are not for the faint of comic heart and probably not to be tried at home. At least, not to be tried at home without having _someone else_ there to get help if something goes very wrong. For every act of daring physical show displayed for the world to see, George can personally attest, any great showman is always, _always_ omitting the several hundred times they hit the floor while trying to get it right. Also, at least a dozen very embarrassing injuries. That's just how the entertainment business works. Pain just makes things funnier, except where it doesn't. 

 The issue with Apparating while falling, George had learned, was that, like their fellow objects, people in motion remain in motion even through split-second spirals through space. Even if one is very good at Apparating, it is very difficult to be rid of all that force, especially if your hands are full. People also tended to land more or less as they’d left - upright people stayed upright, sideways people stayed sideways - if they weren't mindful about it. 

 Fortunately, they had found a simple solution to these problems, one that only required a creative understanding of space and a fine degree of control to implement. A rather easy extension of the basic principles of Apparition, they had thought upon their discovery.

 Though George was practically horizontal and falling towards the floor as he Disapparated, all he had to do was very deliberately determine himself upright about a foot above his destination. To turn himself back upright. To mentally rotate himself as he squeezed himself through space. It’s not just about the destination. It’s about determining his place in that space. The how, as well as the where. To be very,  _very_ precise about his destination. 

 There’s appearing, and then there’s _making an appearance._ There’s a _difference._

 The world smooths and George pops out upright, leaning forward slightly, about a foot about his destination, and falls back to land on one leg with an impact that had been easier on his knees when he was seventeen. (Though it hadn’t been great then either.) The stack is still safely in his arms and, as George checks to confirm their condition as he rids himself of his remaining motion by turning on his heel with one foot still raised. 

 All the packaged treasures are still in perfect condition, of course. Exactly as a customer could expect from Honeydukes’ packaging.

 George’s raised foot lands on the front stoop of a neat house with a bright yellow door. He steps out of his spin, up onto the stoop, and pokes at the doorbell with his wand in one fluid motion. He can hear the classic, muted _ding dong_ of its chime on the other side of the door of the Tonkses’ house.

 He checks his watches. Five-thirty. Right on time.

~

 The Tonkses door is opened by a very tall, very thin, very tired-looking man in his sixties, with greying brown hair and a beard that could both use a trim. This man doesn't live in this house, but he's not at all unexpected or out of place at the Tonks house. The man smiles at the sight of George and it changes his entire face brilliantly. It always hurts to look at, just a little, though George is always glad to bring out smiles in people.

 Smiles are his living, after all, in more ways than one.

 “Hey, Mr. Lupin,” George says.

 The man’s smile turns a little rueful. “It’s Lyall, please, George. Professor Lupin was my son.”

 He was Remus, near the end, for George. George grins back anyway.

 "Where are your eyebrows?" Lyall asks. 

 “I traded them," George explains seriously. "I come bearing gifts.”

 Lyall Lupin raises his eyebrows at George’s bounty. “I can… see that. I don’t know if Andromeda will be delighted or furious with you for bringing this amount of sugar into her house, but… well, we could use the chocolate around here. Come on in. Hope will be glad to see you, if she can see you behind all that.”

 “Oh, is today a Hope day?” George asks, as he follows Lyall into Andy’s house.

 “Today’s been a bit of everything,” Lyall sighs. “The boggart got to Andromeda when she was without her wand, but Hope wasn’t anywhere near it. I don’t know if she really knows what happened. Can I take any of that for you? So you can take off your shoes properly?”

 “No, no, I can manage-” George cuts off as he wobbles dangerously, trying to take off his shoes while holding his plentiful stack of sweets, and immediately gives in. “Actually, yes, please. If you would be so kind, my good sir. Please, help me, before I take a pie to the face. It’d be very embarrassing, personally and professionally, as a comedian, to take a pie to the face without small children watching to laugh.”

 Lyall smiles as he takes the sweets into his own arms. “Don’t worry, George. I’d laugh.”

 “Oh, you’re just saying that to soothe my pride. Is Lee here?”

 “Not yet. He sent a message that he’d been held up, but that he’d be here soon.”

 “Great,” George says, and carefully doesn’t say anything about suspiciously long lunch breaks or conveniently inconvenient tips. Once he’s pulled off his shoes and set them beside the door, he pops back up. “I can take those back now, sir. Wouldn’t want to strain an old wizard’s back.”

 “Wouldn’t want to break a young wizard’s face either, but we’ll see how that goes if he keeps making clever remarks,” Lyall answers mildly, and doesn’t give back the stack. “Let’s put these in the kitchen. Is there anything that needs to be kept hot or cold? Anything that might eat the other sweets or crawl away? Hope found a chocolate frog under the sofa the other day that was a few months old.”

 George doesn’t even bother asking if Hope tried to eat this corpse of a chocolate frog, because the disgust and exhaustion on her grandfather’s face has already answered that question just fine. She definitely tried to eat it. Growing up with six siblings taught George that there is very little that children won't try to eat at least once. 

 “Nah. Everything should be able to just sit out fine on a counter. Nothing likely to go exploring, either.”

 Lyall nods and leads the way farther into the house. “Andromeda and Hope are in the back room,” he says over his shoulder. “We’ve been playing board games. I was fetching drinks. Can I get you anything?”

 “I’ll have whatever the girls are having, thanks.”

 George has never known Andy to have more than one beer while cooking or a couple glasses of wine over dinner, at least with her grandchild in the house. It feels safe to bet that Andy’s decided to forsake any drinking until Hope’s gone to bed and Harry shows up for dinner. Boggart attacks tend to inspire drinking to forget, anyway, so hopefully Andy’s decided just to forsake it altogether. Just the thought of running into a boggart makes George feel like it wouldn't be a good idea to start drinking. 

 Lyall ends up handing George a glass of grapefruit juice, after putting the sweets out on the counter, and George grabs a couple classic Honeydukes sweets – chocolates, of course – to bring with him to the back room. Can’t disappoint the most important person in his life, after all.

 “So, what happened?” George asked, while Lyall was puttering around the kitchen.

 “A boggart jumped out at Andromeda when she was pulling out some old winter clothes from the attic this afternoon, and she had accidentally left her wand a floor down. Fortunately, Hope was having a nap in the back room and didn’t hear a thing,” Lyall explained. “She took Hope out of the house immediately and called me to take care of it. It turned out that there were two of them up there. Have you ever met two boggarts at once before?”

 Just the thought was enough to send a chill down George’s spine. “I can’t say I’ve ever had the pleasure.”

 Lyall’s smile was thin. “If the boggarts don’t manage to cooperate, it can go badly. If they _do_ manage to cooperatively manifest a fear, it can go _very_ badly. They’re both gone now, but I think they’ve taken a few decent nights’ sleep off everyone here.” He sighed. “At least I’ll get some writing done now.”

 “Cheers to that, mate,” George said, as a frequent fellow creator of the night, and lifted his glass.

 “Cheers,” Lyall echoed, and raised the jug he was using to pour more glasses.

 “Hope doesn’t know what happened?”

 “Oh, no, we told her what happened and what a boggart is,” Lyall said. “But there’s very little understanding what it’s like to meet fear itself unless you’ve seen it at work with your own eyes, and Hope’s never seen one. She only knows it frightened Andromeda and… well… she’s been quite a few shapes today, probably trying to make her grandma happy, but... well… personally…”

 “Yeah?”

 “Personally, I don’t believe Hope’s nervous shapeshifting is doing much for Andromeda’s nerves at the moment,” Lyall confessed quietly. “Holding an anxious Metamorphagus is… well… it’s unnerving.”

 “Yeah, I can see that,” George said, and picked a couple of Honeydukes sweets for the girls.

 Lyall picks up the drinks and turns to lead them into the back room, but the thump of small feet approaching at speed interrupts that.

 George prepares for impact.

 “Grandpa, what’s taking _sooo_ long? Grandma and me are done our turns and we’re _waited_ for _you_ and- GEORGE!” Hope Tonks-Lupin, four and a half years old, crashes into George’s legs and beams up at him from thigh height. “Hi, George!” She immediately spots the chocolate in George’s hand and George suddenly feels like a tree under attack by a blueberry-haired squirrel very delighted to see him. “What’s that? What did you bringed? George, noooo!”

 Hope howls dramatically, as George lifts the chocolate, which was already well out of her reach, even higher out reach of her tiny, grabbing hands. Even pushing herself to stand on her tippy-toes and growing an extra inch of height doesn’t change anything. George has long arms and Hope growls at him for such a cruelty.

 Her growl turns into a shriek as George, having put his glass aside, swoops down with his free arm to pick her up and put her on his hip.

 “Hiya, Hope,” he says, and promptly hands over the chocolate before Hope can crawl across his body for it. “I ‘bringed’ gifts for my favourite person, of course!”

 He follows this by blowing an enormous raspberry into the side of her neck, and gets a loud, giggling shriek and a small hand shoving at his face for the traditional greeting. George relents and finishes it off with a loud, wet kiss to the cheek.

 Hope, never one to give up an opportunity for revenge, turns on him immediately. George gets his own welcoming raspberry against his neck, more wet than anything else, and bursts into obliging laughter. Hope, when she pulls away, looks very pleased with herself. Then, priorities in order, turns her attention on the enormous chocolate bar in her hands and looks even more pleased.

 “Chocolate!”

 “And many more sweets,” George promises earnestly. “Do you remember my friend Angie’s boyfriend, Klaus? He’s going to own Honeydukes someday. He says hello.”

 “Every time the Flumes say hello, I gain five pounds,” Andromeda Tonks announces, as she sweeps into the room. She looks tired and a little pale, but her smile is wide and sincere, as George leans down to exchange kisses on the cheek with his good, if initially unexpected, friend. “Hello, George.”

 “Hey, Andy. You’ve got to admit they’re delicious pounds, though.”

 “I couldn’t possibly deny it.”

 As he pulls back, George winks and grins. “And they look just as delicious on you.”

 Andromeda bursts out laughing and that’s a good look on her too.

 They met over the course of three funerals and George nearly cursed her at the first one, thinking that she was her late sister before Bill stopped him and pointed Teddy out in his grandmother’s arms. But if George couldn’t see the difference before, now he’d claim – falsely, but he’d claim it all the same – that he can’t see the similarities. Andromeda Tonks is plumper, more relaxed, with more wrinkles and grey hair, and infinitely kinder, and George Weasley thinks she’s lovely.

 “I thought I heard trouble in my home,” Andromeda said. “You, sir, are incorrigible.”

 “And proud of it,” George agreed.

 "What happened to your eyebrows? Did you lose them again?" 

 George sighed. "There was an unfortunate and tragic accident this morning. I was thinking about growing back just one. To match my ear." 

 Andromeda laughed. "If you're looking for someone to stop you, don't look here."  

 In George's arms, the blue-haired Hope is struggling to open the Honeydukes chocolate and Lyall intervenes. “Hope, you’ll ruin your dinner if you eat all of that now. Do you want some now?” Hope nods and Lyall puts the drinks aside and to take the sweet from his granddaughter, opens it, and hand it back. “Just a piece and then we’ll put it away, alright? George _brought_ a lot of sweets for after dinner.”

 Hope nods and doesn’t bother breaking off a piece. She just takes as enormous a bite of the chocolate bar as she can manage – and if she’s not making her mouth as big as she can, George’ll eat a hat – before handing the bar back to her grandfather. Her grin is framed by chocolate.

 Andromeda laughs again and goes for a towel, while Lyall sighs and puts the chocolate away properly. George stands obediently still so Andromeda can clean her grandchild’s face, listening off the sweets that Klaus piled on him. 

 The doorbell rings and Hope immediately starts wriggling for freedom. “Door!”

 George sets Hope down and she goes sprinting through the house. Lyall follows at a more sedate pace, while Andromeda pulls out her wand and treats the chocolate stains her grandchild left on George’s shirt. Hope’s identifying shouts, Lyall’s greeting, and the voices that carry through the house tell George that it’s Lee and Harry before he’s turned that last corner into the front hall with Andromeda.

 “Hey, babe!” Lee says, from where he’s now got Hope on his hip. He looks just as good as he did when he left George this morning, having traded his  _The Knight Watch_ jacket with the station’s sponsors for a plain black coat and with his locks loose around his shoulders. “Thought you’d beat us here- _what happened_ to your eyebrows?”

 “What’s a punch line without punch-tuality? I had an accident. It was a little eyebrow-razing,” George answers. “Hey, Harry.”

 Harry, kicking off his boots while Lee laughs, snorts at the joke and nods back. “Hey, George. Hey, Andy. Sorry, I meant to be here sooner. Went to help Hermione with a thing and got held up talking to an Auror friend about this boggart stuff. I ran into Lee at the Ministry. Thought they’d banned him for life, but there he was.”

 “Oh, they’re trying,” Lee assured all of them and winked, with a mischievous and daring twinkle in his eyes. In George’s esteemed opinion, this increases his handsomeness to truly dangerous levels. “I think they’ve pre-emptively banned me for death, having experience what sort of haunting I can get up to already. They’d bury me if they didn’t know I know my dirt better than they ever could. Hi, Andy! You’re looking as lovely as ever. Thanks for having us over like this.”

 “It’s always a pleasure, Lee. Come on in to the kitchen. Can I get you boys a drink?”

 Andromeda and Lyall lead the way back to the kitchen with Harry, but George waits for Lee. Hope’s hair has turned back to a bubble-gum blue and fluffed up like a dandelion, now that her messy-haired godfather’s arrived, and Lee sets her down so she can run after everyone else and show Harry all the sweets George brought them. Also, so George can greet his boyfriend properly.

 Proper _lee,_ George jokes to his boyfriend. 

 “Did you buy out the whole store?” Lee asks laughingly, after a deep welcoming kiss and embrace, and after Lee has poked and laughed at George's missing eyebrows. ("Definitely eyebrow-razing. Is the store still standing?") In the other room, Hope is talking very loudly and excitedly. “Because it sounds like you bought out the whole store," Lee tells him. "Please don't tell me you bought out Honeydukes.”

 George chases Lee for another kiss. “Lee, it’s _Klaus._ He gave me the whole store tied up in a bow. And on a completely unrelated note to buying or bonuses: if he tries to give you any money, don’t accept it. It’s not mine. Whatever he says, he’s lying.”

 Lee pulls back and smiles at him, eyebrows raised. “Babe, if anyone’s lying, it’s usually a safe bet to say it’s you.” Lee smiles wider and leans in to peck George on the lips again, at George’s very dramatic, very genuine, and not-at-all fake offended expression at such a terrible accusation, then Lee says teasingly, “You’re just too good to be true, you know, Georgie.”

 George laughs and kisses him gently back for that. How’s it possible to have missed Lee this much? He saw him only just this morning. Lee possibly being up to something mysterious - George _will_ figure out what it is that their friends know that he doesn't, lest he die of curiosity and give in to just ask Lee - didn’t really change how much George thought about him during the day. Levels of snooping? Yes. Overall thinking about Lee? Maybe a little more, but not much.

 “Did you just cast _Lumos?”_ George asks.

 Lee raises his brows, pulling back in his embrace. “Oh, this should be good.”

 “Because I swear a light suddenly appeared in my life,” George finishes, grinning. “I missed you.”

 Lee laughs, gently, and puts his forehead on George’s chest. “I missed you too, babe.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Hope Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin is Edward "Teddy" Remus Lupin-Tonks. Hope'll probably revert back to Teddy next chapter (I was going to have Hope shift to Teddy when George arrived), but they ended up being Hope for most of this one. Teddy|Hope has appeared before, in my fic [_"Into the Arena"_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4472270/chapters/10164680). I have occasional personal headcanons that Tonks actually chose the name Nymphadora (and then later was like "Mom, why did you let me name myself when I was nine, this is all your fault"), and so Andromeda Tonks' being super loose about what her Metamorphagus grandchild wants to be called or wants to be goes hand-in-hand with that. 
> 
> 2) Hope Howell was Remus' mother's name. Unfortunately, while Remus' mother apparently passed away a long time ago, I couldn't remember seeing anything on when or if Remus' father died. So... in this... Lyall Lupin isn't dead. Remus had a dad all along and just NEVER SAID ANYTHING to Harry about it; I headcanon that Remus' relationship with his father was... loving, but always unintentionally strained due to guilt and differences and distance. I like the idea of Andromeda Tonks and Lyall Lupin keeping each other company after the war, and Teddy having more than one grandparent. 
> 
> 3) You can find the story of how George and Andromeda met and became friends in the next fic in the "The Holey Man" series. It's called [_"we don't know what happened to anyone else"_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9636572). How George and Andromeda met was going to be an interlude or small part of this fic, but it got too long, so it got its own fic. 
> 
> 4) Lee IS up to something (because of course he is, you can always expect Lee Jordan and George Weasley to be up to at least one thing), but it's not anything bad. Klaus Flume and Angelina Johnson, you can be assured, would never stand for Lee Jordan genuinely being up to no good. George is only worried Lee might be getting into trouble. 
> 
> Happy Pride month 2018.


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